


From Now On

by allthelovelybadones



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Lovers to strangers to friends to lovers again, Post-Breath of the Wild, Slow Burn, angst ofc, classic amnesia trope, eventually, it'll just take a little to get there, long chapters but inconsistent uploads im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthelovelybadones/pseuds/allthelovelybadones
Summary: Link had once woken up with no memory of who he was or what he had lost. He had felt the pain and fear of losing that all. What he hadn't felt, however, was how it hurt to be on the other side of that. To look at someone you love and be met with a blank stare."Who are you?" You had asked, familiar eyes holding nothing but questions for him.He would have given anything to not have to feel that pain.





	1. I felt the sun begin to dim

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm L0W. 
> 
> I was struck with inspiration for this super late at night and wrote this. As it stands now, it's a one-shot. But maybe if people like it, I'll write more?
> 
> This was also partially inspired by the song of the same name from The Greatest Showman.

Link remembers all of it. He remembers the way the new horse he was training fought against his commands. Shakes his mane when Link directs him to the path. He remembers the way you laughed about it, smiled and said something wild stallions running free. Your smile is one that is permanently burned into his memory— no two were exactly the same. 

This one was one that made you tilt your head back, words almost lost in laughter. It made your shoulders shake, joyous laughter falling from your lips in a way that made him smile. 

Link remembers you running ahead, grinning over your shoulder, taunting him and baiting him. Encouraging him to let his horse try to catch up, let loose a little. As your distance grew, and you turned to look back at him, he remembered how the shadows played across your face, cast down from the cliff to the right. 

He remembers how your laughing stopped when the ground shook. When the land rumbled and roared, when rocks rained down, striking and splitting the earth below you. How your horse reared back and raced forward. How his turned tail and tried to back-track, despite Link urging him to stay close. 

He remembers it clearly, hauntingly so, how one boulder came crashing down upon you, knocking you from your steed and to the ground. His horse stopped cooperating altogether, and Link jumped off it, desperately wanting to reach you, damn the falling debris. He needed to know you were fine. 

He called out to you. His voice stung his throat, disuse and sudden shouting a horrid combination. Rubble blocked his path, pushing him two steps back when he attempted one forward. The brunt of it seemed to be moving back, towards him and avoiding you, all the better for it, but he couldn’t be comforted as you laid there. Unmoving. Unresponsive. 

When it finally stopped, agonizing minutes or days or millennia later, he was at your side. He doesn’t remember running over there, or the sting in his knees as he slammed into the ground. He just remembers feeling air rush back into him, letting go of a breath when he felt your warmth, your heartbeat, and knowing you weren’t— 

He bans that thought, just as he did then. You were here, and you never could have been anything but. 

The ride to Impa is vague, clouded with worry. He had decided she was the closest thing to a healer or someone who would know what to do, near there. He doesn’t remember calling your horse, or spurring it faster, just knows that’s what he must have done when he sees how greedily it drinks water when he arrives at the village. 

He remembers wrapping and unwrapping his arm wraps as he listened to the doctor that had been called. Loosening them almost completely then rewinding them tighter than necessary.  _ Don’t know how long… Lot of trauma… Pretty bad shape… _ So, so much tighter than necessary. 

Your head was hit pretty bad, but the purple bruise that adorned the right side of your head was small in comparison to your legs. Cut, bruised, nearly crushed, it had taken two days alone to come to a diagnosis. An hour to bandage them, your right side nearly covered from hip to ankle. He had watched the nurse’s hands intently until he had the process memorized and could do it as needed.

He’s not sure when he made it a habit to sleep in the room you were set up in. It couldn’t have been the first night, nor the second, because of those he didn’t sleep. Was it the third night, after Impa pushed a piece of bread into his hand and reminded him he hadn’t eaten since he arrived? Or was it the forth, after he had heard the doctor talk about referring your family to an undertaker, and he had silently sobbed while holding your hand. He’s not sure when he started sleeping in the wooden chair beside your bed, but his days begin and end there. 

He remembers never hating his position more than when he has to leave to do some work for Zelda. She’s been more than understanding, giving him time, but not enough. He’s still forced to leave after the second week. 

He says nothing when he hears people talk about the rumors. About how the Hero of Hyrule sits next to a bed for 19 hours a day and sleeps next to it the other 5. He can’t; it’s true. 

He grits his teeth when people tell him that you may not die, but you may not wake up either. When they told him to go, sleep in a bed for once, at least one night. Eat a proper meal. Take care of himself, maybe try and help a few people. Just get his mind clear. He just grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t follow the advice either. 

He remembers the morning of the fourth week, the twenty-third day when he wakes up with pain in his back and a coolness against his cheek. The first is easy to explain; he’s sitting on the chair again, laying his head on the bed. His body protests the nearly-folded position, even if it is for only a few hours. 

The second takes him a moment to realize why. He went to sleep holding your hand, his calloused fingers under your softer ones. And he had brought the back of your hand up to his lips for a brief kiss, just like he had many times before. You had done it as a joke once, lightheartedly teasing him for his esteemed knight position, and it had become a way for him to show affection on his own terms. Now, though, your hand is gone. 

It’s pulled to your chest, which rises and falls quickly. Braces against you as you sit there and look at him. 

He remembers the moment he felt your pulse under his fingertips— the relief, the joy, the feeling of an exhaled breath held for too long— and all those feelings are multiplied tenfold. Now, he reaches for you, habit and instinct and a need to assure himself guiding his motions. 

“Who the hell are you?” You hiss. Your words are venomous, spit from a serpent’s tongue. Your eyes narrow and you shift your weight onto your other hand, away from him. “Stay off!”

His voice, raspy and harsh, tries to come to his aid. “I’m Link. Your—” 

His words trail off. How could he possibly describe what he is, what you are to him? How he feels for you? Nothing can compare. Not with his clumsy way of words. Not with a voice that sounds like sandpaper.  _ Comforting, _ you had called it once.  _ Like home, to me. _ Now your brow furrows at it. An unusual reverberation that shows how little he speaks. 

“I brought you here,” he finishes lamely. His head bows, following the folds in the blanket. White and crisp, replaced every week, he’d made sure of it. 

Don’t you remember? He wants to ask. But doesn’t. He knows better than most how that question feels. Anger, frustration, fear.  _ No, obviously not, _ he had wanted to shout the first time someone asked him. He’s sure you’d want to do the same now. So instead he says, “There was an accident.” 

“An accident?” You repeat. You move further away from him, the corners of your mouth downturned in a way he’s never seen directed at him. “What happened? What did you do to me?”

“ _ I _ didn’t do anything,” Link insists. Why does that, out of everything, cut him to his core? Drag a knife from his heart to his throat and bring a burning sensation with it? “I brought you here. To this place. To Impa. You— you trust me.” 

You don’t seem to notice his pleading tone. Your eyes search the room, looking at the walls blankly. You look to the side table, at the vase with flowers and letters and sweets. When you finally settle back on him, it’s with a hard glare and pursed lips. You search for something, and by the way you cross your arms, you don’t find it. “I don’t know this place. And I don’t know you.”

And he’s two years younger. Fresh off the Great Plateau and hearing Zelda’s voice as she urges him to fulfill a destiny he didn’t remember. Looking for familiar faces and finding none, even in the ones that claimed to know him. 

“I know how you feel,” he says in what you used to call his “horse voice”. Calm, comforting, but commanding and authoritative. “You don’t know anything—” 

“I do know things,” you insist. For the first time since waking up, you sound something other than angry. You sound affronted. You glance to the side table again, eyes landing on a hefty glass vase, almost like you want to throw it at him. “I know I’m in a place I’ve never been in, talking to a stranger. You don’t know me. You don’t know how I feel. You don’t know anything.” 

Link watches you try to stand, gasp in pain. His eyes prickle with tears unshed. He offers a hand that is swatted away to moment it reaches the folds of the sheet; an invisible line drawn between you two. “You need help.” 

“Get out.” Your eyes stay locked on the blankets. The top one, knitted purple and gold, is one from his own bed. It’s the one you ball in your hands as you repeat yourself: “Get. Out.”

“You know me. I know you do. Deep inside, you do remember me. You—”  _ You have to.  _ He doesn’t say it, but the words almost seem to hang in the air between you two.  _ Please.  _

“I don’t know anything about you.” The words are angry. Full of fire and rage and pain. Spit out in only the way someone can address a stranger. He thinks your hands are clenched in pain, but when you look up to address him again, he knows it’s not. It’s hatred. “ _ Get out! _ ”

He remembers what it felt like when he thought your heart stopped. It was pain that coursed through him, sharper than any he had ever known. But now, it’s worse. So much worse. There’s a pain in his chest that is more than physical. He almost wishes you had thrown something at him because it would explain the ache that blooms from his chest and into his bones. Courses and grows until he’s consumed by it and it forces it’s way out of him in the form of a single tear. 

Your expression doesn’t change. If anything, it becomes angrier. More hate-filled.

He stands, nods, and leaves. He stops outside the door. His head resting against it. He should probably find someone, alert them, but he needs a moment. The crushing implications of everything come down upon him. 

Link remembers all of it. But you don’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've gotten this far, and for that, I thank and commend you. Since you did make it this far, maybe consider leaving a comment or kudos? It tells me you enjoyed the story and that I should write more. 
> 
> If you want to talk more about this story, this character, or anything really, my tumblr is [here](https://allthelovelybadones.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. I felt the winter wind blow cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long since my last update--a month, exactly, which wasn't intended. Doing the dialogue for Link is so difficult. But I have an idea where the story is heading, and the plot's underway! The next chapter will be similar to this, or a bit more dialogue heavy, so be on the lookout for that.

When Link pictured “dinner with family” he always imagined a happy affair. His family was mostly lost to him, a century-old drawing hanging on the wall of his house was all that he has left. It’s a bit saddening, yes, but you had never hesitated to welcome him to your family dinners. Your mother offered hugs in greeting and leftovers in parting; your father always happy to accept extra help with chores. 

It was after one of these family meetings that, walking hand-in-hand back to your shared house in Hateno, that Link had smiled. Perhaps off-putting, if you didn’t know him, but you did. You knew him better than anyone. 

_ “What’s got you so happy?” _ You had asked, even though you were smiling too. 

_ “Family dinners are nice,”  _ he provided. You agreed, not forcing him to elaborate, but allowing him to in his own time. You had just smiled and continued on. This smile was one that was smaller; content. 

He would have been a liar to say he hadn’t pictured that smile on a child, maybe one with your eyes and his hair. Maybe a little girl, who would have your stubborn spirit and his intuitive mind. Maybe a baby boy, who has his father’s fortitude and his mother’s compassion. Maybe both. Maybe more. 

_ “Maybe we could have nice family dinners, someday.”  _

You had smiled wider, a shy kind of expression that couldn’t veil your happiness.  _ “If I could choose anyone to have that with, I’d want it to be you.”  _ That thought left a warmness in his chest, a bubble of happiness in his heart. 

Family dinners were supposed to be happy affairs. 

This one was not. 

Link said nothing. It wasn’t unusual, but he felt he  _ should _ be speaking, which was unusual. Sitting across from your father, next to your mother, he felt like he should say something. Offering condolences felt wrong. Support felt hollow.  _ “I’m sorry” _ was all he could say, but he’d already said it so much the words had lost all meaning. He’d repeated them over and over again the night your parents had arrived until your mother pulled him into a hug. Told him not to blame himself. Still, he apologized until he was gasping for breath, not even realizing he had been crying. 

Link said nothing. 

Your father, just as silent as he, looked to the front door. Or rather, the table next to it. The off-white piece of paper was one no parent should have to receive. On that fourth day, when you yet to show any signs of waking up, your parents had been greeted with two directions: one to the hotel, and one, spoken in a quiet, solemn voice, to a mortician. The paper, Link noticed, had been crumpled up, then reflattened, and was now hidden by stacks of paper detailing your medical charts. 

Your mother’s silence was worse. She had been terrified you had forgotten about her, but still rushed into your room. She was met with hugs and tearful reunion, overjoyed that your memory loss didn’t touch her. But, she had known, that Link was lost to you, and seemed to hurt for him. 

“Please,” she whispered. The sound was jolting in the silence. Link looked at her and she looked back, eyes pleading. “Please, will you go and see her?” 

See you? He hadn’t been back since you woke up, a little over two weeks ago. He’d taken as many odd jobs as possible, torn between staying close by and putting distance. It hurt to be away but it hurt, even more, to remember how you looked at him, yelled at him. Far, far too often his chest constricted, his throat burned, his eyes became watery— 

Your mother put her hand on his. A caring figure he didn’t know he needed. 

Link nodded. The grating sound of his chair pushed against the floor was followed by his bowl placed in the sink, and then the door being shut behind him. The inn had been expanded back and upwards as the village grew over the past four years. The stairs that led to the extra rooms led to a curved path that had once forked and continued on to a field of wild horses. Now, a house sits atop the hill Kilton used to settle. 

The house had served as many things, from a place for Zelda to discuss matters with the people of Kakariko Village, to a delivery room, when the need arose. A few times, even, it had served as a temporary room for you and him, when the inn was full. Whatever it had been, though, it was purely Paya’s. She had moved in shortly after construction was done, and gladly offered it up when a place was needed to treat you. It’d be a lie to say he didn’t take his time, fluttering anxiousness filling his chest. He’d felt like this before, he thought. Or similar to it. Even the action of watching his boots cross the floor was familiar. Though, now, he's chilled by the winter breeze that never seems to leave. 

The large front room was dimly lit. A couple of people bustled around— healers, Link recognized— but most were gone at a late hour. Paya greeted him from her spot near the kitchen area. 

“Master Link! You’re back! I thought maybe—” She shook her head. Whatever she was going to say trailed off as she looked to the side. “It’s nice of you to come. She has— she asked about you.” 

The confusion he felt must have been clear, because Paya continued, “I’ve been answering her questions, telling her who the gifts are from. But she always wants to come back to you. That’s a good thing, right?”

Link nodded. He supposed, and the flutter of hope in his chest was difficult to fight down. He busied himself with helping Paya, moving the elixirs to the correct shelves. 

“I think, Master Link, that maybe… Perhaps you should go and talk to her.” Something familiar bloomed in his chest. A feeling he couldn’t place, but know he felt before. So, so well-known but unnamed. 

He nodded again. That’s what he was here for, wasn’t it? And yet, he was hesitant. Why? 

“I, uhm, it’s time for her elixir anyways.” She handed him a familiar bottle and sent him off with an encouraging smile. 

With his hand poised to knock, the realization hit him. Nearly four years ago, he had gathered the courage to walk up the pathway to the house in Hateno. Then, too, he had knocked on the door, saw your bewildered face— “ _ Why would you knock on your own door, silly?” _ —and rushed out the words, “wouldyougoonadatewithme?” before thrusting a bundle of Silent Princesses into your hands. 

This similar feeling was the fear of rejection, as silly as it may be. The stakes were both larger and smaller. There was no friendship on the line because there was no past— as far as you could remember. If you rejected him, there would be no awkwardness together; there would be no “together”.

He knocked. Waited until you answered before even reaching for the handle. 

Seeing you again was like a breath of mountain air— fresh but frigid. You were reading over a letter that had been sent to you, probably thinking he was Paya, until you looked up. If you were angry at his appearance, you didn’t show it. Just looked slightly surprised. He raised the elixir in explanation. 

“Oh, thank you.” You reach out your hand for it, but he hesitates. 

“You’re going to want something to eat with it.” You blink at his voice, hard and full of rough edges. Grating. But still, you smile politely. Until you realized what he said. 

You don’t retract your hand. “I’m not a baby.” Your tone isn’t offended. If anything, it’s the lightest thing he’s heard you say. “I can take my medicine like a big girl.”

“I know you won’t like it,” he wants to say. He’s seen you take this elixir many times when you both were out adventuring. Seen you choke it down with a grimace. He knows what you would ask; “I know you would want me to make you something to eat with it, and I would. And you’d still complain, because you know I would make you some honey candy, even if it takes a while.” But he doesn’t say that. Because you don’t know. He just hands you the bottle. 

Definitely, you take the bottle to your lips, and drink. As quickly as you put it to your lips, you bring it away, nearly spilling the mostly-full bottle. “Ick. What’s in that?”

“Lizards. And monster parts.” 

“You’re kidding.” You’re smiling again. A nervous, somewhat polite smile. You had worn the same one the first time he had introduced you to Zelda. A warm summer day that seems so far from now. He says nothing in response. “You _are_ kidding, right?”

You push past his silence. “Do you, um… Would you please sit down?” Link hesitates— is it his place to assume the chair he occupied for so long? This room feels like  _ yours _ and he infringes on it every second he stays. “I’d like to talk, if that was alright.” 

And so, he sits. On the same chair he spent so long waiting in. And waits, again, for you. 

Your hands trace over the gold pattern on his blankets. A nervous habit you’ve always had. You press your hands down, flattening the folds until they’re lain perfectly, no sign of you moving under them. “I’m sorry. For yelling at you. I just— I was scared, and I don’t know who you are.” You glance up at him, so apologetic that his heart hurts. “And to wake up in some place I’ve never been and see someone, I just—” 

“I know. I understand. You don’t have to apologize.” Link doesn’t completely know why he speaks so forwardly. There’s no way you would know that he’s been in a similar situation. But you nod all the same, running a finger around the top of the elixir bottle. You push your nails into the cork, steeling yourself. 

“Paya told me about you. She said you were a hero. She said you were  _ The _ Hero.” Link nods, allowing himself you sit back in the chair a little. His title is safe— neutral zone in a field of traps disguised as memories. This is fine. This is good; comfortable. “She said we were… together. Dating. Why didn’t you tell me?”

And suddenly he’s sitting up straight again. You laugh at that, and he can’t help but smile. Your comfort allows him to relax again as he responds, “I— I didn’t want you to feel…” 

Pressured? Bad? None of these words feel right. None feel like a satisfying answer. He can’t really explain why, but he just couldn’t tell you. But you don’t push him to continue. You give him a chance, and when he doesn’t speak, you fill the silence. Keep the conversation light, friendly. “Am I your damsel in distress then?” 

Link smiles, and he’s surprised at how easy the action is. “More like sidekick.” 

“Sidekick? I may not remember much, but I’m pretty sure I’m a femme fatale.” You’re beaming, eyes bright and happy. His heart thrums because this,  _ this _ feels so right. 

“I bet we made a pretty good team.” Your growing smile is contagious. Talking to you after all this time is refreshing, and he can’t believe how much he’s missed this. Surprised to find he feels almost  _ giddy  _ to be here talking to you. 

The memories that come back aren’t hurtful, for once. More bittersweet, but even that feels too negative. Instead of being the only one to remember, he finds he wants to tell you of all your adventures together, side by side. “The best.”

You nod, your eyes far away for a moment like your trying to recall, or think of what it might have been like. Then the moment passes, and you look to the side table. In the time you’ve been here, so many people have sent cards, letters, gifts, and tokens of good luck to you. What’s here is only a fraction of it, the rest sitting in the main room, unopened. “Did we help people? Protect them?”

The question is unexpected. This, at the very least, he thinks you would know. Your natural inclination to help people is the thing that drew him to you in the first place. It’s something that quintisessial to you being  _ you.  _ “Yes. We helped as many people as you could.”

You nod again, thinking. When your eyes find him again, they ask before your lips can form the words, “Together?”

The question hits him deeply, makes his heart warm in a way that he can feel in his bones. Pierces him and makes him feel at home, where he belongs, and he can’t stop himself— 

“If I could choose anyone to have by my side, I’d always want you.”

The admission is rushed, but not untrue. Still, it’s not something you say to someone who has no memory, who can’t recall you. Basically strangers is what the both of you are, and the awkward air between you two cements that. He wishes he didn’t say it, because now you’re not smiling, not as casual as you were before. You seem to come back to the present, to reality, where your next words are grounded in. 

“Have you seen my parents? I mean, since… the last time I saw them?” Your parents, as caring as they were, couldn’t stay in Kakariko forever. They had a long journey home, and a house that was left unwatched while they were away. While their room at the inn was free of charge, food was not. And when they had seen you last, they told you they had to be leaving soon. 

“They’re trying their best. Trying to sort things out with the healers. They’ll be here for a few more days, I think. After that, you’ll have Paya.” He wants to tell her that she’ll have him, too, but after his previous misspeak, he decides against it. He looks down at his hands, the worn material of the wrappings a comforting familiarity. Even in the silence, he feels better than he has in two weeks. Knowing you’re safe, here, not— He pushes the word from his thoughts. 

“I really am sorry,” you say, voice quiet, but strong. Resolved. He looks up at you, looking for a sign of hesitance. He finds it in the way you look off to the side when he catches your eye, run your fingers over the pattern on the blanket. You pause like you’re expecting him to tell you not to be again, but he doesn’t. If you’re apologizing again, you must have a reason. 

“This is so— so difficult.” The frustration in your voice is clear. He hears and hates that he can’t do anything to help. “Not remembering is so hard and I hate that I’m like this. I don’t know how to get better and I hate it so much.” 

Link doesn’t speak. Doesn’t know what to say. Instead, he rises, moves until he’s standing near you, over the bed. You didn’t expect that, and look up at him with wide eyes. He kneels, an action that is more muscle memory than thought, and takes your hand in his. “I’m here.”

You don’t smile, or thank him, or hold his hand. You glance at where your hands are joined, his over yours, and frown. “I— I’m sorry.” The warmth of something you’ve done a thousand times before is missing. The gesture is empty, and he feels it. “Being around you is… it’s so difficult.” 

You don’t pull away, but you do look close to tears when you look at him. His heart hurts, but he needs to know. “Why?”

You look away again, anywhere besides him. “I— I don’t know.”

He knows you’re lying; he presses again, “No. Tell me. Please.” Do you not want to be around him? Do you remember something? 

You shrink back, disrupting the perfect folds in the blanket. Your uncomfortable, he can see it. You open your mouth, once, twice, searching for an explanation you can’t come up with. Your watery eyes move to the side table, laden with gifts and cards of well-wishes. Then along the wall, until you reach the door. “You should leave.” 

Link grips your hand tighter, begging you to look at him. “Is it—?” Is it something you remember? He doesn’t care if it’s something bad, something horrible about him. The fact that you  _ could  _ remember something is enough. It would mean healing, growth. “I need to know.”

You swallow hard, inhale deep, and close your eyes. “Please go,” you whisper. 

He stands again, dropping your hands. Silent as he walks to the door. His hand on the handle when you talk again. 

“Link? Will you come back tomorrow?”

He turns and looks back at you, solemn, but nods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A healthy dose of angst with your summer morning. Hopefully the dialogue and progression felt natural and hopefully you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> You made it this far, so I thank and commend you. Since you're here, maybe consider leaving a comment or kudos? It really does inspire me. 
> 
> And, hey. Thanks


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